


Let's All Go Down The Strand

by Azdak



Series: Oh, It's a Lovely War! [6]
Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Sayers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2010-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azdak/pseuds/Azdak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You've never seen Bunter off duty," said Lord Peter, darkly, "I have, and I can assure you that a hymn-book would be about as softening to his heart as neat whisky to an Anglo-Indian liver." (Strong Poison)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's All Go Down The Strand

"Wassat?" said Lord Peter Wimsey, his forefinger describing wobbly circles in the air.

"Wha'?" said the Hon. Freddy. "Wha'? Where?"

He slid gently down the lamp post until his rear end was resting on the pavement.

"Over there," said his lordship. "Looks like Bunter. You know, my man. The Admirable Bunter. Put him on a desert island and he'd be king in three days. Can't be, though. 'S Bunter's evenin' off."

"'Tis him, though," pronounced the Hon. Freddy, peering through the gloom. "I say, Flim, I wish you'd call me a taxi. I can't make my legs move at all."

"You're not leavin' me?" said Lord Peter. "The night is but young. Less' all go down the Strand! Have a banaaaaana!"

"No," said Freddy. "No, no, no. Don't wanna sing. Wanna go home. Feelin' a bit rummy in the guts."

"Yes, but look here, Freddles," protested his lordship, "you can't just toddle off an' abandon me like a dicsarded - dicsard – tossed off old _sock_. What is a woman that you forsake her, and the hearth fire and the home acre, to go off in some bloody taxi and coddle yourself with hot milk and an early night?"

"Stop quotin' poetry, you ass, an' call me a taxi."

"I would, Freddy, I would, seein' as you're in such dire straits an' all, only I can't see any taxis for miles around. 'S not a part of Town where you find taxis, is it? We're poor little lambs who've lost their way! Baaaa!"

The Hon. Freddy, who was feeling genuinely unwell, might have committed an act of violence serious enough to have had him banged up for several decades, had not a voice at that moment said, "May I be of assistance, my lord?"

"Bunter!" said Peter. "It is you! Well, bless my soul. What're you doin' in this part of town? On second thoughts, don't answer that question. Jus' get Mr Arbuthnot here a taxi. He wants to go _home_." This last was pronounced with a withering scorn that would have wounded a lesser man than the Hon. Freddy to the core.

"Does you lordship wish me to summon a further cab?" said Bunter, having poured Mr Arbuthnot into one such vehicle and watched it drive off. "Whilst it is a pleasant night for a walk, Piccadilly is perhaps rather distant, under the circumstances."

"Don' wanna go home," said Lord Peter irritably. "Home's empty. An' iss dark when all the lights are out. Wanna go somewhere where there're people. Where're you goin', Bunter?"

There was a perceptible hesitation before his manservant answered, but Lord Peter entirely failed to perceive it.

"I was on my way to visit my mother, my lord."

"Splendid!" enthused his lordship. "Charitable visit to lonely old ladies, jus' what the doctor ordered. Come on, Bunter, where's the old bird live?"

"Ah, this way, my lord. If your lordship would perhaps allow me to shift your left arm slightly further around my shoulder, I believe there would be less risk of your lordship's succumbing to the forces of gravity."

"Ver' good, Bunter, ver' good. Carry on. You know the way, eh?"

"Yes, my lord. I have been visiting my mother for many years now."

They passed down an alley, against whose dinginess an assortment of colourfully dressed young women in ruffles and feathers stood out like veritable birds of paradise. Lord Peter raised his voice to address them.

"You meaner beauties of the night  
That poorly satisfy our eyes,  
More by your numbers than your light,  
You common people of the skies,  
Where are you when the moon shall –"

"'Ere!" said a voice. "'Oo are you callin' common? You've got a cheek, you' ave, comin' down 'ere and – oh!" it continued, in quite different tones. "Why it's you, Merv. On your way to see us, were you? Oo's that toff you've got with you?"

"This," said Bunter, in an accent that was somehow less civilised than the tones Lord Peter was accustomed to hearing from him, "is Lord Peter Wimsey, and I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head in his lordship's presence."

"All right, all right, keep your 'air on. I was only askin'. A cat may look at a king, you know."

"Assolutely," Wimsey agreed. "You assolutely may look at me. And I daresay I may return the compliment. Only it's so dark out here I can' seem to see prop'ly. Bunter, you appear to know this young lady. What say we accompany her through that doorway she's standin' in? There's music goin' on in there – no, don't shake your head like that, I can _hear_ it - an' I daresay there'll be something drinkable, an' we can carouse the night away, an' I won' have to go home till daylight."

"Yeah, come on, Merv," said the young lady. "It'll be a laugh. I won't let anything happen to yer proterjee, I promise."

Bunter glanced along the street with a degree of irresolution, possibly wondering how long his agèd mother would be prepared to wait for her errant son. But all he said was, "I am, as ever, at your lordship's service."


End file.
